The Peacekeeper and the Lawmaker
by Dara Gunter
Summary: Upon receiving information about traitorous actions happening within members of the British government, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade must seek out the elusive Mycroft Holmes, a man said to be at the heart of the government itself. Finding him at a gala, Lestrade was able to gain the interest of the eldest Holmes brother.


The event was in full swing. The champagne was being passed around and the guests were all chatting happily. So why, then, did Mycroft feel annoyed? He strolled through the room, taking compliments with a stony smile, dropping it once when they weren't looking. This was dreadfully boring.

Sitting down at a small table in a secluded corner of the room, he watched the crowd. There were friendly conversations, good-natured debates, hand shaking, and smiles. All so ordinary. All so _boring_. He sighed and took a sip of the red wine he held, contemplating whether or not to leave and go back to his office. He disliked social outings.

"Mr. Holmes?"

Slightly startled, Mycroft glanced up to see a man standing in front of him. He had an authoritative air about him, yet he looked a bit too tired and disheveled. Mycroft read him, noting the five-o-clock shadow and grey hair, despite appearing to be only in his early 40s. The man cleared his throat.

"Are you Mycroft Holmes?" he inquired again, glancing down at the mobile in his hand, then back at Mycroft again. The man seemed to be flipping through pictures on the mobile. Most likely pictures of Mycroft. He held a small briefcase his right hand, the mobile in his left. He looked dreadfully out of place in this ballroom.

"Yes, I am," Mycroft finally answered, a bit of his annoyance seeping into his tone. "Can I help you?" He forced his mouth into a brief smile. He just wanted to be left alone to drink his wine and think about upcoming government business.

The man's face lit up. "Great, glad I found you." He paused. "Wait, can I ask you a few questions first, just so I know you really ARE Mycroft?" Mycroft nodded. "Okay. What is the name of your younger brother, who is his closest companion, and what does he do for a living?" Sherlock had told him to ask these three questions, knowing exactly what Mycroft would say.

Mycroft blinked in slight confusion. "His name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes formally but he prefers Sherlock Holmes, dropping two of the names he was given. As for his companion," Mycroft laughed softly, almost mockingly. "He doesn't have any companions. His personality doesn't permit it." He rolled his eyes." And what he does for a living is show off his intelligence, claiming to be the world's only consulting detective." Mycroft took at sip of his wine. "Is that enough information confirm my identity?"

"Yes, it is," the other man said. He thumped the briefcase down on the table in front of Mycroft and offered his hand. Being the proper gentleman he is, Mycroft stood to shake the man's slightly sweaty hand, grimacing.

"I'm Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade from Scotland Yard," he introduced himself. "I am a frie- erm, an associate of your brother. He helps us on some cases."

"Ah, I see," Mycroft remarked, even more testily than needed. An acquaintance of his brother's wasn't one he wanted to be associated with.

Mycroft glared down his nose at this 'Lestrade' man. He obviously wasn't invited so he had to have flashed his badge to make it past the doormen. Throwing his power around. A man after Mycroft's own heart. Impressive. Also the fact that Lestrade had actually managed to find him intrigued Mycroft in the slightest.

Mycroft settled back into his chair, gesturing to the one to his right. "How might I help you, Gregory?" Mycroft skipped past all major formalities. He deemed them unnecessary and a waste of his invaluable time.

Lestrade took a seat and opened up the briefcase, took out two manila folders and a legal pad of paper, filled with rough writing. "Yeh, ehm…" he glanced the scribbles on his pad of paper. "Sherlock tell s me that you are in the British government and I have some infor-"

Mycroft held up his hand, stopping the DI mid sentence. He stood up and started to walk towards the doors. "Come with me," he commanded over his shoulder.

Lestrade gathered the papers hastily and unceremoniously shoved them back into the case, following after him.

Once outside, Mycroft called his car around. He slid in and left the door open for Lestrade.

"Oh, I have my car," Lestrade tried to argue. "I could just follow yours."

Fixing Lestrade with a pointed glare, Mycroft said, "No, you will not. I will have my driver bring you back here to your car when our business is through."

Lestrade squinted at Mycroft, debating whether or not to try and find another government official to take this to or not. Sherlock had said that Mycroft would help, but he failed to mention that he was a bit snobbish. Lestrade finally gave in and clambered into the seat next to Mycroft.

"To my office," Mycroft stated to the driver and the car started to move.

They sat in silence for the duration of the drive, Mycroft staring out the heavily tinted window at a foggy London evening as they drove through. Lestrade stole glances at Mycroft. He was a tall gentleman with short, almost thinning red-brown hair. Other than that, he looked like any other man affiliated with the government. Posh, somewhat arrogant, and quite proper.

After driving for five or ten minutes, they stopped came to an older looking part of town. The buildings were grand but not too much so.

Upon walking in, Mycroft signaled Lestrade to remain quiet. A brass plate with the words "The Diogenes Club" was fixed to the wall. Two elderly gentlemen sat in comfortable looking armchairs in a room to their right, reading. Mycroft walked past the room and into a large office, waving Lestrade inside.

The office was grand. Double wooden doors opened up into a large, spacious place with quite a few fancy armchairs and tables. Bookshelves were built into the back wall and there were decorative trinkets from exotic places spaced evenly around the room, some perched on shelves, some mounted on the walls, and some in special glass cases. Mycroft walked over to one of the small tables that held a lamp, a few crystal glasses and a decanter with brownish red whiskey. He poured himself a bit of it. Lestrade figured it to be more than 200 years aged, judging by the colour. Plus, being a proper English gentleman, Mycroft wouldn't have anything less, he assumed. Mycroft, of course, didn't offer any to Lestrade, which was slightly rude, but he didn't really expect him to, figuring that 'being an arse' was most likely a shared trait between the two brothers.

"So, Gregory was it?" Mycroft spoke, carrying his drink to a set of chairs that faced inward towards each other with a table on each right hand side. He folded his tall form into the one facing the front of the office and gestured for Lestrade to take the one opposite. Lestrade went and sat, sinking into the leather comfortably. He propped the briefcase up on his knees, opening it once more.

"Yes, but can call me Greg," Lestrade replied, pulling out the folders and the legal pad. "Not that your brother can ever remember it, but I have more faith that you would, considering," he mumbled, more to himself than to the elder Holmes brother.

"Considering what?"

"Hmm?" Lestrade glanced up, dropping a pen in doing so. "Bugger…" He leaned over to retrieve it and everything fell off his lap. "Aw, now c'mon!" he snapped angrily to himself. He struggled to gather the strewn papers, dropping two for every one that he picked up. "Oh, bollocks…" he kept muttering.

Mycroft considered thiswhole ordeal entertaining. He found himself smiling, oddly enough. He cleared his throat and sat back in his seat, dropping his smirk, replacing it with cold indifference.

"Would you like some assistance?" Mycroft offered, knowing full well that the DI would decline.

"Nah, I'm just havin' a bit of trouble-" he answered as the legal pad fell out of his arms for a third time. "Dammit."

He was finally able to pick up the stray papers and get them back in order after a few more minutes.

Getting settled back in the chair, Lestrade handed one of the files to Mycroft. "I have information about possible leaks of secret information of the British government to Russian spies. It isn't exactly my division, but the source of this information asked to speak to me and only me. It was the strangest request. I'm homicide. Not government issues. Why do people always assume I am more than homicide?"

Mycroft leafed through the papers, sipping his whiskey, only half-listening to the detective inspector. Mycroft pinpointed the most important parts, committing them to memory and disregarded the unnecessary bits. There indeed seemed to be some good evidence of something being planned within the inner workings of the government. Mycroft, in fact, had started hearing whispers of traitorous misdoings within his niche of informants. He had started investigating himself but the DI had brought him much more than he had been able to ascertain from his own sources. He was thoroughly impressed, but, of course, wouldn't admit that aloud.

"Did your contact give a name or other means of identification?" Mycroft inquired. "Any indications of who they were?"

"I- er- no they didn't," Lestrade answered. "They were female, judging by their voice, if that helps."

Mycroft nodded and returned to the papers in his lap. Lestrade sat quietly, rereading some of his own writing on the pad of paper, waiting for more questions. For the better part of 20 minutes, Mycroft just studied the papers, gaining information that far surpassed what he had acquired thus far. Apparently, this ordeal was far more serious than he first suspected, if this information was correct. A few high-ranking officials (the suspected people are listed but none are confirmed) are alleged to be selling government secrets to a group of Russian radicals. What the Russians are planning to do with this information is unknown, but Mycroft suspected it was a terrorist plot, judging by the list of people assumed traitor and their positions within the goverment. Disturbed that he didn't see all of this before it had gotten this serious, Mycroft shut the folder forcefully, startling Lestrade.

"How long has this person been in contact before you had come to me?" Mycroft asked, a bit testily. He wasn't keen on being fooled by his own government, especially in the position he was in.

"About a month," he answered.

Mycroft lurched forward in his chair, eyes wide. "An entire month?! You let this go a full month without reporting it?!" Mycroft's face was flushed with anger. "Who knows how long this has been going on and you just wait a month to-" Mycroft stopped mid-sentence, put a hand to his face, and pinched the bridge of his nose right between his eyes. He felt a thudding behind his forehead. After regaining his composure, Mycroft sat back and took a long drink from his glass, draining it. He inhaled and looked back at Lestrade, who was sitting a bit further back in his seat then he had been.

"Why did it take you this long to contact anyone?" Mycroft asked in his calmly cold tone, back in control of himself.

Lestrade stared at Mycroft for a moment before replying, "The informant called every single day, at 2:30 pm exact. They would talk for ten minutes and then hang up, even if they were in the middle of a sentence, just to continue the same sentence the next day. About a week ago, the calls just stopped." He fixed Mycroft with a heated gaze. "And we HAD tried to be in contact. Someone is not an easy man to find. I had to practically beg your prick of a brother to tell me how to get a hold of you. He kept saying 'If he has a need for you, he will summon you, not the other way around.' I was about to kill him. Finally, he let slip that you were going to be at that gala tonight and here we are."

Mycroft glared at Lestrade, who, to Mycroft's surprise, was able to return it. Finally, Mycroft gave the DI a small grin. "My dear brother had tried his best to tell you that I don't like to be bothered, but you were in the right to come to me. My sincerest gratitude, Gregory."

"It's Greg," Lestrade replied, "and you're welcome, Mr. Holmes," He was a bit taken aback by the other man's sudden change in attitude.

"Please. Mr. Holmes is my father. Refer to me as Mycroft, if you will," Mycroft replied. "And I shall call you Gregory. Greg is far too informal for my taste. Apologies."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Whatever." He made a face and mumbled, "At least you don't call me Graham."

Mycroft chuckled but covered it with a slight cough. What was wrong with him? Why did he find this man interesting? He was dull and oh so ordinary.

Mycroft stood and walked over to the table with the decanter on it and poured, this time filling another glass along with his own. Walking back over, he offered it to the detective inspector.

Lestrade looked up at Mycroft. He was facing to Lestrade's left, standing as far from him as he could while still remaining within arms reach to offer the glass. "Uh, thanks?" Lestrade said questioningly, taking the crystal glass from Mycroft.

"My apologies for my rudeness in not offering earlier."

"Oh, it's fine. I didn't notice."

Mycroft knew he had, though. He had read it on Lestrade's face when he had poured his first glass. He sat back down and swished his drink back and forth in its glass.

Lestrade took a swig, eyebrows rising. "Bloody hell, that's good," he stated.

"289," Mycroft replied.

"What?"

"It's 289 years aged. The whiskey."

Lestrade stared into his cup. "Jesus."

Again, Mycroft found himself almost laughing. It was very strange, but he felt a sort of connection with this man. He wasn't sure what to do with this new emotion and he didn't like not knowing. He decided that he would just shove it to a corner of his mind and set it to be figured out later, when he had the time.

The two men talked about the issue at hand for a few hours more. Suddenly, they found that the hour was striking two in the morning, the decanter was nearly empty and Mycroft was feeling rather lightheaded. Lestrade was a tad bit tipsy.

"I believe we should finish up here, Gregory," Mycroft dictated. "I am rather exhausted and I need time to think."

"Hmm? Oh, yeah. It is late, in't it?" Lestrade remarked. He had started to gather the papers when his eyes widened and he sat up straight in his chair. "Oh, my CAR!" he exclaimed suddenly, giving Mycroft a start. "I left my damn car at that place- that- er… at the place? The one where I found you?" He snapped his fingers and grimaced, squeezing his eyes shut. He gave up trying to remember and shrugged.

Mycroft gaped at Lestrade. "You will most certainly not drive as you are. You are drunk. My driver will take you home. You can get your car in the morning."

"I'm not Mycroft, drunk," Lestrade stated.

Mycroft cocked his head in confusion. He knew his senses were a bit impaired by his slight intoxication but he doesn't think he heard Lestrade correctly. "Excuse me?"

"Huh?" Lestrade's brows furrowed as he squinted at Mycroft.

Mycroft shook his head. "Never mind. Gather your things. I'll call my driver. No arguments, Gregory. You are in no condition to drive yourself."

As Mycroft called, Lestrade stood up, wobbled a bit but stayed up. He swayed slightly but not enough to cause worry.

"He will be outside in a few minutes," Mycroft reported, sliding his mobile back into his pocket. "Just tell him your address and he will take you there."

"Alright then. Thanks," Lestrade stuck out his hand. "Nice meetin' you, Mycroft. You aren't half bad, mate."

Taking the DI's hand and pumping it once, he smiled. "Pleasure. And the same to you as well, I think." He took a business card out of his pocket and handed it to Lestrade. "Keep in touch, Gregory. Any new information, inform me immediately."

Lestrade took the card, genuinely returning the smile. "Will do, boss."

Mycroft tilted his head and blinked, unsure how he felt about being called 'boss'. It was somewhat nice but it was slightly demeaning. He decided to let it go and nodded.

They walked through the double doors together, bumping into each other. Mycroft would recoil a bit at the contact but didn't exactly mind either. The two men that had been in the Club earlier were long gone. Mycroft's car was at the curb, waiting in idle. Lestrade slid in behind the driver and shut the door. Mycroft put his hands in his front trouser pockets, and started back in the building.

"Oi!"

Mycroft turned back around, stopping on the stoop.

Lestrade had the window down and was halfway out of it. "How're you gonna get home?"

"I already told you, Gregory," Mycroft looked down his nose, smirking cheekily. "I need time to think. Alone. I will be staying for the time being."

Mycroft turned and walked into the club, shutting the door behind him.

Lestrade squinted after at the peculiar man. "Both of them are bloody weirdos," he stated, rolling up the windows. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the business card. It was plain white with a silver embossed 'M' on it, one phone number under it. 'Odd not having even his name on it,' Lestrade thought. He turned it over. 'Nothin'.' Lestrade shrugged and put it back in his pocket. Perhaps they can work together again sometime.


End file.
